Admonition
by Frayed Misfit
Summary: Did you kill my unborn child? Did you kill my parents? Did you kill my soul? A Regulus Black, Severus Snape and Lily Evans story - because life is for living.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I am not J.K Rowling and would not even attempt to impersonate her with Polyjuice Potion, so no, this is not her work.

**Author's note: **This story will form my response to a challenge set by Skye Samuelle. It will not be particularly pleasant yet will aim to spread awareness of issues that I feel very strongly about; namely children dying in still-birth, homophobia, incest, murder and the right to choose. Please leave a review, this is entirely new to me and I would adore your feedback.

This chapter is dedicated to **Amelie and Jessica** my twin nieces who were stillborn.

**Admonition.**

Noun. 1. an act of admonishing 2. counsel, advice or caution

_If you dissect a bird  
To diagram the tongue  
You'll cut the chord  
Articulating song._

_If you flay a beast  
To marvel at the mane  
You'll wreck the rest  
From which the fur began._

_If you pluck out the heart  
To find what makes it move,  
You'll halt the clock  
That syncopates our love._

Sylvia Plath 'Admonition'

**i. **

Lily let her hands fall onto the white sheets that surrounded her, she felt impure and unclean in this sea of white, her body exhausted and broken, an empty vessel. All the strength that had possessed her during the labor had evaporated leaving a cold sweat on the back of her hands and a curiously empty sensation within her soul. It was as if a deep black had spread within her, catching in her throat so she was unable to speak. Her tongue was a bullet that had not been loaded.

It was impossible to forget the truth. To be blinded to the mediwitches huddled in the corner, throwing her furtive glances their mouths speaking in hushed and counseled tones. To be unaware of James' solitary figure, his hand lifted to brush back the curtain, his unmoving eyes staring into the street. To not feel the child that was only a moment ago inside her, to be suddenly empty not only as its carrier but as its protector.

The mediwizard's voice continued to replay in her head, as a horror movie that she did not have the nerve to turn off.

"There was nothing we could do Mrs. Potter, you child was simply unable to survive, his eyes never opened onto this world."

_His_, yes he had been a boy. James and Sirius had been right and she had been wrong, his name was Harry, the name that they had chosen together. They had held hands by the Thames, James' eyes dancing at the very thought of having a son, Lily's laughter had echoed over the ancient river. And they had decided that if it was a boy, he would be called Harry.

_Harry._

James' hand moved suddenly against the window as he let the curtain fall and block out the filtered sunlight. Lily saw his hand opening and closing in a desperate attempt to catch something that was not there. His back was straight and he would not look at her, he would not even touch her.

So she imagined his embrace and felt the stain of it brush her shoulders, she wished for his hot tears to mingle in her own, she played the pantomime of their grief in the stage that was her mind.

Yet even as her imagination willed it, James was beside her, a solitary tear forming behind the rims of his glasses. They both could not form the words to speak, yet Lily willed her lips to shape the right expressions, to comfort him and to be accepted. His hands took a strand of her ruby hair, twisting it in a moment of quiet contemplation as he has always done.

James brushed an empty kiss into her hair before leaving, his face etched with grief and guilt, the lines upon it portraying an age that was not his own.

Lily knew in that moment that he would not come back to her.

**ii.**

The days stretched onwards, and Regulus felt as if he was only a part of a whole, being pulled along into the days and weeks that made up his existence. A cord had been inserted into his stomach that forced him towards his destinations.

He flicked his wand lazily at the pages of The Daily Prophet, his grey eyes scanning the headlines for anything noteworthy. The battered couch he was sitting on was faded and stained, worn out from the inextricable toll that had been born upon it. Regulus was fond of the couch; as it seemed to be the perfect metaphor for his life, unable to control the people who decided to sit on it.

His life was contained in the old newspapers at his feet, in the moldy coffee on the table, abused and then forgotten.

Yet, Regulus had to forget to remember, lifting the firewhisky to his lips, immersing himself in other people's news, in the things which did not concern him.

To rid his mind of the empty images of dying people, muggles and mudbloods alike, who had either attempted to thwart the Dark Lord or who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

His own decisions had made him a murderer, the alcohol could not change the decision he had made quite willingly. He had wanted to be like his cousin, to be the opposite of his brother, to be adored by his mother. The bonds of his family had helped to confirm his resolution.

And yet he felt contaminated, finding other people's blood on his shoes, hearing other people's screams in his dreams.

The life he was leading could not be considered living.

**iii.**

Severus ran a finger along the rim of his teacup, his eyes focused on the soft swirling of the tea leaves at the bottom. The dainty porcelain seemed unfamiliar in his hand; the delicate petals of roses which adorned the side were out of place.

For he was taking tea with the Dark Lord.

"I consider you amongst my finest, even at such a young age."

The Dark Lord studied Severus over his teacup, his long fingers wrapped around the boiling water, unable to feel the scorching heat.

"I am very much obliged, My Lord. I will always do whatever is necessary," Severus placed the horrible cup on its saucer and folded his hands over his knee, "whatever it takes".

"Ah, I had thought so."

The Dark Lord offered Severus a slice of pumpkin pie.

"Which is why I had thought it necessary to arrange a gift for you for our next meeting, as you are aware," he took a slice for himself, "there is still the matter of your family."

Severus lifted one eyebrow, his hand moving to the teacup again to give it an occupation; he let the Dark Lord talk on.

"We cannot allow for such impure blood to run rampant through our ranks, can we?"

"Of course not My Lord, no one would expect that," he sipped at the sweet tea, trying to ignore the way that his stomach had begun to beat, "we must do all that we can."

"All that _you_ can Severus".

"Yes, My Lord".

Seemingly satisfied with the discussion, Lord Voldemort stretched back into his chair, his empty teacup balanced on one knee.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I am not J.K Rowling and would not even attempt to impersonate her with Polyjuice Potion, so no, this is not her work.

**Author's note: **So I am not supposed to be writing fanfiction at all until the 21st of October but I simply cannot resist continuing this. I am glad you all enjoyed the first chapter; suggestions, love and criticism would be adored!

This chapter is dedicated to **Athena Alexandria **who is my only real life fan fiction buddy (and who needs to write HP herself!)

**i.**

Lily lets her feet fall in the empty house, her footprints tracing memories that are left in the fading layers of dust. Her numb fingers gently touching what use to be; James' bedside lamp, the crib that was to be Harry's, photos of their wedding day.

She does not cry.

She wanders through the hallways and the still dining room, afraid to clean up the remains of the breakfast they shared before the labor, the crusts of toast and hard slices of cheese. She tiptoes around James' possessions as if they were no longer hers, separate, so separate now.

It is as if they were never a whole, as if a wall had divided the house between the old and the new, Lily's slippers and James' toothbrush.

And then there is Harry's possessions, Lily's eyes linger upon them and it is as if a distance has spread between them too. They are strange and unfamiliar in the emptiness of her womb, in the silence of this house. She takes the patchwork stuffed elephant from its place on the mantle and stares into the depths of its eyes, challenging its existence.

But it does not answer. It has no child now that will pull its ears and nibble on its trunk, its purpose is now void.

The fluttering of tawny wings disrupts the silence as an owl enters through the kitchen window, a heavy roll of parchment tied upon its leg. Lily reaches through her numbness to the scroll, briefly considering its origin before letting her eyes drop to the inky words.

"My dearest Lily,

My condolences are all yours, the death of your child must be an emptying loss, the depths of which I cannot understand.

I am obliged to tell you that I believe the loss of your son was not coincidence, the manner in which his death occurred and the identical loss of Frank and Alice's son lead me to conclude that Dark Magic was most certainly involved.

I was witness to the making of a prophecy, which greatly concerned Lord Voldemort. It foretold of his downfall by a child who would be born in the seventh month to parents who had thrice defied him. You may easily see how both you and James and Frank and Alice fit into this mould.

I had believed that Voldemort would wait until the children were born in order to ascertain which he considered the biggest threat, yet I now realise that I made a grave mistake in trusting in this decision. It seems he was not content with either child arriving into this world.

Your child's death lies forever on my hands; it was an old man's foolish decisions which sealed this fate.

I only inform you of this in the hopes that it will ease your pain.

I remain your humble friend,

Albus Dumbledore"

**ii.**

No one is coming to save him.

Regulus sips at his too hot coffee, his silver eyes trailing over the people who hurry past the shop, their own eyes downcast, and their cloaks fluttering eagerly behind them. Their quick movements betray their terror for the unspoken nightmares that curse their sleep.

The war had begun to suck the marrow out of each bone in the human body, leaving everyone hollow and empty. A shell with no echo of the ocean, no dream of the seaside.

Two figures halt to the side of the human traffic, Regulus can see them through the grime that plagues the window. He is immediately certain of who they are, the tall silhouette of a young man, his hands frantically gesturing to the other man, who is slightly smaller yet of the same dark complexion. Sirius Black and James Potter.

As Regulus watches, Sirius places his arm over his friend's shoulder although it is quickly rejected. James steps back into the sweeping crowd and leaves Sirius on the curb.

There is something about his older brother that Regulus has always admired and yet in the same breath detested, like the summer sun, leaving you warm and burnt at the same time.

He was always taller than Regulus, always more certain and steadfast in his beliefs, always the one to challenge what was placed before him, while Regulus always merely accepted.

He had accepted what was planned for him; he agreed to become a Death Eater because it was what people expected of him. When the sorting hat had asked him why he wanted to go into Slytherin all of those years ago, he had told it that Slytherin was what was anticipated for him, and so he would go.

He had let other people draw the map in which he followed; his mother, Lucius and now the Dark Lord. They all had things planned for him, and unlike Sirius, he did not question them.

Until now.

His eyes lingering on the forlorn figure of this brother, Regulus begins to understand what it means to live.

**iii.**

Tobias Snape is chained to the floor.

His legs are twisted in an impossible position, his face is a patchwork of blood, and his only son stands above him, his dark cedar wand drawn.

The dark curtain of hair cannot cover the disgust that is etched upon Severus' lips, his fellow Death Eaters read it as contempt for a mud-blood father, yet Tobias understands that it is a deep hatred of his son's own life and actions.

"Enough play now, we do have other matters to attend to. Finish him off and we can feed him to the thestrals." The cold high drawl of Lord Voldemort echoes through the stillness of the torture chamber, he begins to walk towards the exit before rotating back, "Severus?"

Lifting blank eyes to meet his masters, Severus gives a curt nod before turning back to his father.

As he shouts the words he sees not his father before him but the shadows of past fears.

Theodore Nott circling him in the Slytherin common room, taunting him for his lack of wealth, his sickly appearance and his muddy blood.

The tears of Lily Evans, as she questions his morality.

The shapes and gentle curves that make up her back and the rise of her shoulders as she walks away.

James Potter setting his underpants on fire at the Yule Ball, and Sirius Black using a full-body bind so that the fire burnt deep into his flesh, marking his skin with fine white lines that were once flames.

His mother's awful look of understanding as he returned home from a raid covered in someone else's blood.

Lord Voldemort patronising him continuously over cups of fragrant tea.

"AVADA KEDAVRA"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Once again, in case you didn't get it the first and second times around, I am not J.K Rowling and would not even attempt to impersonate her with Polyjuice Potion, so no, this is not her work.

**Author's note: **I apologise that this update took so long to happen, I couldn't get into James' head and then wouldn't let me upload it. It is also quite short, which I didn't intend but it happened anyway. Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers, I would seriously lack conviction and dedication without you all. Love you.

This chapter is dedicated to **Padfootatheart **who really is such a brilliant reviewer, and who has always supported me and to **Cuban Sombrero Gal** who has helped develop my portrayal of James. Thank you!

**i. **

James watches the fragments of his former self in Padfoot's bathroom mirror.

There is the shadow of the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain, his hair ruffled from 'being on the broom', his eyes searching the crowd for Lily, his chaser hands rough.

There is the sigh of Prongs behind his now dull hazel eyes, the Stag with the unbreakable friendship, with the proud stepping grace, with his muzzle lifted high in jubilation.

There is a glimpse of an elated fiancé, rising from his kneeling state to embrace Lily, holding her to him like a lost teddy bear, whispering the words "forever" and "love".

There is a father-to-be resting his head against Lily's swollen stomach, hearing his son's little feet leaving imprints on her womb. He had laughed and said that 'Harry' was surely practicing Quidditch in there, or perfecting his charm for the generations of girls who would fall in love with him.

But behind the facades and theatre curtains in his mind, there are lines drawn and defeated, weighing the corners of his mouth down so that it has become impossible to smile.

It has become impossible to smile.

**ii. **

It seemed strange, like the way ice stuck to your finger when it was wet.

That the Dark Lord would trust such vital information regarding his soul to a house elf, that his prejudice against all others would blind him to the intelligence of such a creature.

Regulus rocks back and forth in the large leather chair in the study of Grimmauld Place, placing together the pieces of information that had recently fallen into his lap.

Like a jigsaw puzzle made up of the pieces of someone's life.

Kreacher had returned home from the Dark Lord's service burning inside, the potion that the Dark Lord had forced the house elf to drink had almost killed him. As he lay spluttering and coughing on the kitchen floor Kreacher had relayed all that he had been witness to in the cave.

Regulus runs a hand along his chin, the small spikes of thick hair feel safe beneath his fingers, he takes another mouthful of firewhisky, allowing it to burn his tongue.

There was a golden locket in the bottom of a stone basin. A material object that the Dark Lord wished to keep hidden.

Yet it could not merely be a locket that the Dark Lord fancied, otherwise why would he spend so much time trying to protect it?

Lifting silver eyes to the ornately pressed ceiling, Regulus tried to regain his thoughts, which were somewhere between the night sky and his brain, lost in the airy regions of the high-ceilinged room.

He had become a pawn within this end game, he merely had to make it across the board, filing all the pieces behind him.

**iii. **

Severus' feet swing aimlessly on the broken carousel, his hands covered in chipped paint and glitter.

There is no wind on this July afternoon and the heat beats down from the midday sun, a drop of sweat runs down his spine, unseen beneath his thick black cloak.

The stench from the industrial town of Spinner's End permeates the stillness, the outflow of the factories pumps into the little river, polluting the memories of his childhood.

A red-headed girl clinging to his hand as they played chicken on the wharf, their fishing rods long forgotten. Severus never let her fall, at the last minute he always pulled them back, crumpled together on the hot weathered wood.

Spending all day searching the ground for a sixpence to put in the carousel, he would feed it into the slot just as Lily became visible at the other end of the playground. The music would begin, the ponies would start their dance, and she would run towards him laughing.

She would run towards him laughing.

There was nothing to laugh about now, even though he had faithfully deposited his sixpence into the carousel it no longer worked. Everything in this world was fractured and corrupted. It took everything and gave nothing back.

He has taken his father's life; he had taken Lily's innocence.

He had splintered his own life by saying things he did not mean.

By forgetting to fight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. So there.

**Author's note: **Another apology is in order: I am terribly sorry that this fic has seemed to fall by the wayside, it hasn't, my thesis has just been ruling my life until now. I haven't slept properly for a week. That is my excuse for this abstract chapter, I am afraid it is all over the place. So enjoy x

This chapter is dedicated to **Severus Snape** because he is fan-tab-u-lous!

**Chapter Four: You slip your heart into my chest**

**i.**

The sunlight that filters in lazy shadows across the curtains is too calm.

The tick ticking of the muggle clock on the kitchen wall is too slow.

The dull hum of water moving through the plumbing is too quiet.

Lily stands in the living room and screams.

Tearing apart her perfect world piece by piece, allowing herself to succumb to the agony of the unfairness of life.

The numbness has been replaced by insanity, by an inability to process the reasons behind this atrocity.

Scorched and burned she tries to stand.

In a fairytale she was married to the man she loved. Sitting together on the floor eating pizza because they hadn't moved the furniture in yet.

Once upon a time she had felt her son move inside her, James had sung to him beneath her blouse, trailing kisses along her swollen stomach.

In a dream they had danced all night, whispering sweet nothings until the sun rose, its brightness startling them both into reality.

She hears a dim echo of knuckles on wood, she silences her scream, her feet shuffling towards the door.

**ii.**

(there's no one else to turn to)

A red headed girl stands in front of him, her face stained with old tears, the brass door handle still in her hand.

"I'm looking for Sirius Black?"

She stood so close to the door frame, a touch of fear laced her lips.

"I'm sorry I must have the wrong house."

Regulus turns to leave, stuffing his hands back into deep pockets, clenching his teeth in the absurdity of the situation.

A Murderer on a doorstep.

"He's not here."

Her voice is as fragile as porcelain, but broken porcelain, Regulus can hear that it is in pieces.

Behind her sorrow he can see a shadow of the Gryffindor she was.

Sirius use to talk about her. The way she held her hands over her head when it was raining, the white curves of her back when she went swimming, her muggle parents.

"You married Potter?"

The door handle left her hand and she sunk onto the door step, her hair falling about her weeping shoulders.

Taking her into his arms Regulus shuffled into the house, placing her between pillows on the faded sofa.

Blinking between thick eyelashes she offered him a fragment of a smile, a small acknowledgement.

"I'll just let myself out?"

Her hand circled his wrist.

"Why have you come here?"

"I believed that my brother lived here."

"You're avoiding the question. Why would you want to see Sirius?"

Her eyes challenged him, they represent fear and loyalty and anger.

"Why are you angry?"

She had slapped her hand into his face before he had finished speaking. Her hand left an imprint on his cheek, the band of her wedding ring grazing his cheekbone.

"You're still angry."

The corner of her mouth twitched again, betraying a forgotten smile.

"You hate Sirius. Sirius hates you."

"That's pretty much how it works, yes." Regulus looked towards the ceiling.

"So the reason for you visiting me is?"

"So now I'm visiting you? Look, I just need to see my brother."

She could see through him, he knew it. It was as if they were alone in a crowded room and she couldn't look away.

Lily didn't know why she was talking to Regulus Black.

(Did you kill my parents?)

Lily didn't know why she wanted to help him.

(Did you kill my unborn child?)

Lily didn't know why he wanted to help her.

(Can you see my soul?)

**iii.**

Severus climbs the stairs in Spinner's End, his shoes treading on the ends of rusty nails, his hands collect splinters on the banister.

Piecing together the fragmentary portions of what is left of his life.

What he has left behind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **surprise surprise I am not J.K Rowling.

**Author's note: **Just to make this clear, for my sake as well as yours, the date is August 1980, Lily and Severus are 20 and Regulus is 19, I've had to move Kreacher's revelation forward from 1979 to 1980 in order to fit in with Harry's death.

This chapter is dedicated to **Simon Van Booy** who has been my muse.

**Chapter 5: Let me feel you in my veins**

**i.**

James wakes to mornings filled with regrets and desires. He sleeps with his glasses on, not bothering to remove their angled frame from his already aching face.

Sirius' spare room is oddly empty, the carpet is stained, the walls a pale blue.

Every morning Sirius makes him milky coffee and peanut butter on toast, he leaves them perched on the bedside table.

James can hear him whistling as he hangs out the washing, pegging his clothes to the line like fragments of his life, hanging them out to dry in the August sun.

(James wonders why Sirius pretends that everything is ok, why for him life is still moving)

Sometimes James wants Sirius to just hold him, to feel another human being's skin on his own, to feel a heartbeat through a t-shirt, to know that other people are alive.

That other people care.

But Sirius would just laugh and take him down to the pub, a cigarette balancing on his lips, his greedy eyes searching the swarm of adolescent girls.

James hates the smell of stale sex, of alcohol abuses frenzies, of more regrets.

Sirius pokes his head through the door way, his fake smile etched across his swollen lips.

"A letter came for you today," he tosses the parchment in James' direction, it lands on his stomach, "it came by the muggle post, lucky I didn't have my wand out!"

Sirius laughs and James stares past him, into the corridor.

It looks like Lily's writing, but it is more cramped, the ink is almost carved into the paper, as if the hand writing it was angry or insane.

"I think we should meet.

2pm at mine.

P"

The paper almost smells like Lily. They say that families have the same smell.

Sirius is still standing in the doorway, James throws the letter back to him, not knowing what to believe.

**ii.**

Regulus stares into the depths of his mug, he can almost see his reflection in the deep brown coffee.

Lily's broken fingernails tap the side of her own mug, her head is tilted to one side, lost in thought.

Regulus doesn't know why he told her about Kreacher, perhaps it was because he knew that she needed something else.

She needed something that she could hold on to, something to believe in.

His own knowledge had been a sunny day in the years of torrential downpour, a sign that this was life and not death.

(that there was a way out of this metal cage)

Lily tucks her legs underneath her on the sofa, "it, it just seems impossible that this could really defeat him."

Regulus looks up, the shadow of a smile forming behind his lips.

"I think it can. I mean, I don't know really what we are facing, but I'm fairly sure he would have made more than one, he's not so ignorant that he would place his soul so carelessly about."

He takes the last swig of coffee, it is cold now, the bitterness of it bites into his tongue.

"So what do we do now?" She asks, her eyes filled with a purpose that had fled after the death of her child, after the abandonment of her husband.

"Dumbledore?"

**iii.**

Hogwarts had not changed.

It seemed a strange thing that something could stand so still, so permanent in this world of turmoil.

Severus' feet trace memories through the castle, winding past where he studied before exams, trailing by the place where he held Lily's hand, meandering through the corridors where he hexed Potter and Black.

The stone gargoyles outside the headmaster's office stare bleakly at him, their stone eyes challenging him, but they can see that his purpose is honest and they emit him without a spoken word.

The office door is open and Dumbledore is waiting for him, his hands resting beneath his chin, his eyes conveying wells of understanding.

"Ah Severus, please take a seat," his hand gestures to a plump peach armchair.

Severus sits, his gaze steady but his mind reeling.

"Headmaster …

"Please Severus, call me Albus," he nods encouragingly.

"…Albus, the thing is that I've been thinking about your offer and I've decided that I want to accept." Severus allows himself to breathe, a tiny inhalation that seems to soothe him.

"I presume you mean both offers?" Dumbledore gazes at him over the top of his spectacles, "the post of potions master is all yours, and I cannot be more glad that you have decided to take my advice."

"Thank you Albus."

"Just tell me one thing Severus, it is vital for me to understand. What is it that made you come to this conclusion?" He offers Severus a gingerbread biscuit.

"I killed my father," Severus says it calmly, "I've lost the only woman I ever loved and in the process I have lost myself."

Severus takes the biscuit, turning it in his hand, his appetite non-existent.

"You see Severus, you are quite wrong on two of those accounts. Lily may be closer to you than she has ever been before, I assume you understand the situation in which she now finds herself? As for losing yourself Severus, I believe it is the other way around, you have just begun to find yourself, and that is far more important."

He lifts a hand to silence Severus, there is a timid knock on the office door.

"Come in."

They are the most unlikely people Severus would ever imagine to be standing there.

"Ah Lily, Regulus, what can I do for you?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I'm still not J.K Rowling, sorry.

**Author's note: **Admonition is almost at 1000 hits! I am increasingly proud of this fic; it has developed my understanding of some characters, it has sparked within me an obsession with Regulus and it is still exposing issues that I feel deeply about. I really do hope you are all enjoying it as much as I am. If you love it, hate it, or feel indifferent about it, please leave me a review!

This chapter is dedicated to **xRosePetalx** for taking the time to read and review all of my work.

**Chapter 5: Sometimes we wish for far away.**

**i.**

Petunia's kitchen smells like disinfectant, there is no trace of life, of happiness in this artificially sterile place.

She stands too close to him, he can taste her perfume mingling with the disinfectant.

Her child wails from an upstairs bedroom, trapped within his own fears yet unaware of them in his incomplete brain.

The noise of it terrifies James, reaches inside of him of asks him questions that he cannot answer.

(where is your child?)

(would you let it cry?)

(I am your nephew)

Her voice skims easily over her child's angst, her hands twisting the strings on her apron in a kind of desperate manner.

"So I assume you don't have any kind of job now? I always told mother and father that you would end up this way."

"Petunia, if you invited me here just to insult me," James runs a hand through his hair, "it's best if I go".

Her movement is sudden, her hand snaps around his wrist and she presses her long head into his shoulder. James can feel her wet lips on his neck. He is acutely aware of her body pressed awkwardly against his, her heartbeat much faster than his own.

"What the fuck!"

Using his free hand James pushes her roughly onto the kitchen bench, where she stands, her eyes wild, a strand of hair has escaped her tight bun.

"Yes, I think it's best if you go." Her voice is cold and measured, every word falls between sharp intakes of breath.

The imprint of her hand burns James' wrist, he stares at her, open-mouthed.

Her child continues to wail, cutting through the strained silence.

"What the fuck was that?" He demands.

"Leave!" her voice is raised now, her lips shaking.

Shaking his head, James leaves, slamming the door in his wake.

**ii.**

The room smells like gingerbread and broken dreams.

Severus Snape turns around to face her, his face more drawn than she had imagined it, all of those years of having him painted in her mind.

His eyes have an emptiness to them that was not his own.

The image in her head was in watercolour; blurred and frayed along the edges.

The young man before her is made up of pieces of childhood memory, and they don't fit together because what is he doing in Dumbledore's office?

"Sev," the word leaves her mouth before she is conscious of the fact that she is standing open-mouthed in the doorway, a known death-eater at her side, her hair unwashed, her eyes red from lack of sleep and weeks of silent tears.

His eyes look back at her a little blankly and she hates his ability to hide his emotions, his god damn mask.

The urge to hit every piece of him fills her with a roaring energy, she begins to shake, unable to pull her eyes from his.

Regulus' hand is on her shoulder, its warmth shakes her out of her reverie, and her eyes fall instead on Dumbledore. An unreadable smile has formed on his lips.

"Please, take a seat." He gestures to plush armchairs beside Severus.

"I must say that this is a strange and unexpected reunion," he offers Lily and Regulus gingernut biscuits, which they both refuse, "I was not expecting to have the pleasure of your company Regulus?"

Regulus leans forward, his eyes move to Severus, suddenly unsure of allegiances, old ones and new ones seem blurred in this office, on this day.

"I trust Severus completely Regulus, you are free to talk here" Dumbledore offers, his lips now inquisitive.

Settling back into the chair, he takes a steadying breath before speaking, "I know how to defeat the Dark Lord".

**iii.**

It is in the small hours of the morning before the conversation is halted, the castle is still now.

The candles are burnt low, wax dripping onto stone floors.

Lily had fallen asleep, her knees tucked up to her chest, her head inches from Regulus' shoulder.

Severus turns to her now, his eyes following the familiar curves of her body, the vibrant red locks of her hair, her eyelids heavy with grief and dreams.

He had never seen her look so beautiful and so broken at the same time.

In his memory she was fierce and wild, confident and so sure of her identity, now she was a small child, alone and insecure.

Consumed by things that had been left behind, clinging to dreams and desires that were no longer a reality. Severus wonders where she had left herself, where the world had lost its colour for her.

"I think we should all get some rest, we will need it tomorrow" Dumbledore smiles and inclines his head slightly towards Lily's sleeping form.

"I'll take her to a bed" Severus offers, the need to touch her momentarily overwhelming him.

Lifting her easily into his arms he bids the others a good night.

Painfully aware of her sleeping body folded against his chest, her dreams seeping into his shoulder he traces old paths through the castle, walking once more past faded memories.

He takes her to her old bed in the Gryffindor tower; the dormitory seems stale in a state devoid of students.

Placing her in maroon and gold blankets, her hair tumbling over pillows, her arms leaving the safety of his neck, her lips form broken words.

"Goodnight Lil".


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I'm still not J.K Rowling, sorry.

**Author's note: **1042 hits and 43 reviews makes Admonition my third most popular fic (after My Own Way Home and Forget to Remember) and I am so happy and proud. Thank you to everyone for their continued support whether you are a silent reader or one of my reviewers I really appreciate you taking the time to read this. I hope that this chapter sheds some light on Petunia's feelings, she is unraveling as quite a interesting character, I am intrigued by her.

This chapter is dedicated to **Avindara Nirvene** for, well for no reason actually.

**Chapter 7: Night is a tattered veil suspended.**

**i.**

There are simply no answers.

The weight of water is heavier than first thought; it pounds Petunia's back in the small plastic shower cubicle.

It can't wash away what is stained there.

Her bare feet maneuver their way around half empty shampoo bottles, narrowly missing a stray bar of soap.

She dries herself with starched towels, the fibers of cotton scratch little maps onto her body, marking it like a blank canvass stretched over too much skin.

She wants to be owned, labeled, like the cities spread over Africa she wants to be colonised.

The day that her younger sister was born into the world,

(Petunia remembers the smell of plastic in the hospital)

she knew that she wanted to be like Lily, with her perfect toes and her straight smile.

Lily's hair was a vivid red, Petunia's was mousy brown. Lily's eyes were a sparkling green, Petunia's were brown. Lily was a leader, Petunia was a follower. Lily succeeded, Petunia pretended to succeed.

She tried to trace Lily's footsteps as they grew up; walking in the prints that Lily left in the wet sand on Majorca, she ate marmite on her toast (even though she hated it) just because Lily did.

But Petunia would never be like Lily, because Lily had always been more magical, more beautiful, more intelligent; she had always had more friends, more clothes, more laughter.

Petunia wrings her hair out over the white basin.

But Petunia would be _more_ than Lily now; she would have Lily's husband, she had the child that Lily always wanted, she wouldn't follow her younger sister.

Petunia's hair flashes red in the mirror.

There are no answers.

**ii.**

The Slytherin common room is a lie.

Regulus knows this now.

He had found friendship in the most unlikely places. Lily had made him understand about the value of human life, of hearts that are more important than the blood that pumps them.

She would hold his secret in the deep recesses of her mind.

Dumbledore did not question his morality, he had portrayed his trust in a smile, in the tunnels of his eyes.

Severus has been wearing a mask, Regulus knows now.

The Slytherin common room is a lie.

There is still blood underneath his fingernails, it is stained a deep red.

He can not erase the past; there are too many numbers in his head.

6 innocent deaths, 23 crucios, 1 brother, 0 lovers, 19 years, 2 lives and 1 second chance.

Leaving the common room, he shuts the door on his past.

**iii.**

Lily wakes to find Severus gone.

Perhaps it was a dream; perhaps it was a figment of her past, when he carried her from the grass under the tree onto the sofa in her parent's living room, one sleepy summer forever ago.

Her hair contains traces of him; she can smell him on the pillow.

He is asleep in the common room, Lily finds him curled upon the thick rug. She has never seen him sleeping before.

She thinks it is because he would feel vulnerable and weak, that he has hidden it from her for so long.

But he would be wrong because it is beautiful; his breath shakes his whole body, making it seem fragile, his eyelids conceal his often intense eyes, his lips rest comfortably.

Lily folds herself down beside him, resisting the urge to touch his face.

She use to trace words upon his forehead and make him guess what she wrote, she had written fears and desires upon his face, and they are forgotten now.

"Stop staring at me." His voice issues from the lips she thought were dreaming.

"Sev!" In her state of shock, Lily lets out a laugh that she had forgotten she had.

He climbs into a sleepy sitting position, self-consciously rubbing his eyes, the back of his hair is sticking out in a James-esque fashion, although Lily does not find it annoying on Severus, but endearing.

"I'm sorry to wake you, you looked so peaceful sleeping."

Lily can see a slight red creep into his sallow cheeks, she use to see how many times she could make it appear there, but that seems childish now.

They are not children anymore.

Severus doesn't seem to know what to say, now that they are so close and so alone. There are too many words, too many unspoken scenarios between them.

"Lily .. I, I'm sorry."

The apology tumbles out of his lips; he wishes he could say more, about her dead child, and her parents and her fuckhead husband. About the trust they shared that he had broken, about the pain he had caused her.

But when Lily looks into his eyes, she can understand him without words.

"I know."

She places her hand on his knee; he covers it with his own.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **No, I'm still not J.K Rowling, big surprise there!

**Author's note: **So I am officially in this state of limbo where I am finished University and still haven't gotten a job over the summer, all of my friends are moving onto that next stage, we are all changing. This story is also changing; nothing ever stays the same, does it? Welcome Remus and Peter, who I hadn't forgotten about, I just didn't know when to slot them in (I have also never written Peter on his own before), enjoy and please review I always love to hear from you.

This chapter is dedicated to **Regulus Black** because he is the sex (and is considerably absent from this chapter, woe).

**Chapter 8: Falling into a bottomless abyss.**

**i.**

Scars contain memories, are reminders of pain.

Remus traces a withered finger over the contour lines of his body, each touch evoking a hidden past.

The long, deep scar on his left thigh had begun to fade, reminiscent of a time in the Shrieking Shack, when Padfoot's teeth clenched around the bone, pulling him away from Severus Snape.

Remus had never really forgiven Sirius for the murder he had almost committed, under the influence of the full moon. Its yellowish glow haunted him in the midnight hours, after he turned the lamp off, his eyes half closed on the lumpy pillow.

September was divided; twenty-nine days of sanity, one day of insanity.

A mind ripped from its comfortable hollow in the confines of the skull, possessed and wild it ravaged for blood.

Remus lets his hand fall in the mellow water of the bath, viewing his broken body through the hazy layer of soap that has formed on top.

The night outside the bathroom window falls too quickly, the last rays of the sun draining all the hope from the world like a child sucking on an orange, the bitter skin is all that is left of this day, countless amongst the other days that rise and fade.

This is life in stasis.

Empty cigarette packets and unread newspapers, falling stars and broken china.

**ii.**

Peter pulls the dark rim of his hood further over his forehead, his small watery eyes barely visible under the line of cloth that hangs over them.

He does not know why he walks down dark corridors, the soles of his feet making no sound, the wand in his hand vibrating with fear.

It is as if the air around him is aware of his secrets, pushing in on him from all sides, slowly replacing the oxygen with the taste of resentment, the acidic taste of lies.

He slips into Mulciber's hallway, letting the door close softly behind him, slipping the dark hood away from his features.

His face is round and boyish, a laugh is captured there somewhere in the depth of his eyes but it no longer surfaces, repressed by this double life, by this absence of love.

He was free once, now he is a slave.

He joins his companions in the living room, their shapes relaxed against sofas, hands clutching bottles of butterbeer, mouths moving in speech.

"Petey!" Theodore Nott welcomes him, giving him an affectionate slap on the back; it reverberates into his ribcage, fluttering the tiny heart that resides there.

"Theo." He nods in recognition, taking a bottle of butterbeer for his own, leaning against a broken bookshelf.

The dark haired man leans in, his unshaven cheek scratching Peter's shaven one, his words stick to Peter's chin like sugar on the end of a spoon.

"Insiders say that the Dark Lord is considering you amongst his highest, his most revered," another back slap is awarded, "that potion you fed to the little redhead mudblood worked a treat, her brat of a child was dead before he slipped out of her."

Peter takes a long sip of the warming liquid, it does nothing to take away the taste of vomit on his tongue.

"It was my pleasure," he offered, forcing a malicious grin to skim his lips, "mudbloods and blood traitors deserve to die."

**iii.**

Severus places vials of potions in meticulous lines on the wooden shelf in his new office.

He orders them in terms of colour, placing the red next to the pink, the blue next to the green.

Lily watches him from her place on a wooden chair, her legs drawn up to her chest, her face relaxed as her eyes follow his movements.

"So why did you decide to teach? I still can't really imagine you explaining something to an eleven year old!" She lets slip a little laugh, it tinkers around the stony walls like music.

He turns to face her, a corked potion in his hand.

"I need something to occupy myself."

His words are simple and they shock Lily. Severus has always shocked Lily, in the little things he does, like not raising to the joke she threw at him, like his simple words, like his ability to keep his voice steady.

"So do I." She speaks carefully, not sure of how much to tell him, not wanting to rush her emotions on to him.

He places the potion onto the shelf, his rhythmic movements sooth Lily into speech.

"After Harry died I didn't know what to do, everything was so empty, so dark. If you could have just seen our .. my, house. The baby's things were everywhere, these constant reminders, and sometimes I could still feel him, you know, in my belly."

He stops his shelving of the potions, letting his hand fall to her hair, his fingers reaching for the back of her neck, urging her to go on.

"And I forgot about life because all I could smell was death, this horrible stench of bleach and starch, smells I picked up in the hospital I suppose. I was so afraid that I was going crazy, by myself in that house choked of memories, and I couldn't reach out to anyone, not even Remus, because I realised that they were all _his_ friends. And I realised that you were the only person that knew me, and I thought that you wanted me dead, that maybe you had done this."

She pauses through her words, unable to turn her eyes towards his, although his presence is not accusatory, she can feel his emotions through his fingers on her neck, as if they were an electrical conduit.

"I know it was wrong for me to blame you, I just couldn't understand where it all went wrong. In one day everything was taken from me, and everything that I had already lost seemed so far away."

"When Regulus came, he gave me hope. And he doesn't even know that."

She allows a little smile to halt her words, she can feel Severus' arms now around her shoulder.

He kneels down to her, taking her chin in his white hands, their noses almost touching.

"You have never lost me Lily, I have always been here. Together we can fight all of this, this pain and suffering. We have all lost something, we are united through our pain, Regulus, you and I."

Lily nods, understanding now.

It is only through pain that we grow.

**iv.**

"_The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What a caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly" _– Richard Bach.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **No, no and no. Not J.K Rowling, my ego isn't that big yet.

**Author's note: **So the last few months have been hectic and I haven't written a lot, except for working on Christmas fics and drabbling into Regulus and Severus' characters. I'm glad to be able to have free day so I can once again be immersed into this story. Thank you for being so patient in regards to updates.

This chapter is dedicated to **Charlotte Brontë** because her way with plot, characterisation and imagery is inspiring.

**Chapter 9: Paint the Sky With Stars.**

**i.**

James dreams incoherent thoughts, his mind twisted into labyrinths filled with the sounds of children crying.

In the darkness behind his eyelids he sees a pregnant Lily, her mouth perpetually open in a kind of horror, her eyes weeping with silent tears.

The image replays like a broken film, tattered and strained it continues into the early hours of the morning, unborn babies wrapped in colourless linen, broomsticks rain from a painted sky.

He struggles with the white sheets that contain him to the small bed in Padfoot's spare room, his limbs tangled within the coarse blanket.

He is not aware of it but Sirius lies beside him, his hand covering his feverish eyes, whispering sweet nothings into his friend's deaf ears.

Sirius lies there every night, his cold feet touching James' too hot ones.

James would never permit Sirius to hold him like this, like a small child wrapped in the safety of its mother's arms, unconsciously he craves it, when the nightmares plague him his hands slip involuntarily around Sirius' waist pulling him closer, his head buries into the crevices and creases of Sirius' chest.

Sirius' eyes are open, tracing the thick dark hairs that cover James' head.

He thinks about how this war has broken everything, how this hatred has torn them all apart, limb by limb, heart by heart.

His fatigued lips crash against James' neck, his friend tastes like fever and pain, he smells of despair.

Only in the hours near the dawn does James stop his relentless twisting and turning, his mumbled screams, his fumbled words.

He allows Sirius to hold him, their bodies curled into one another, spread against the painted backdrop of disillusioned dreams.

**ii.**

Lucius lets his hand rest on the cover of a small leather bound book, his hand throbs with the life that it contains yet he does not understand its importance.

Through the candle light he can see his wife, their son asleep in her own dream ridden arms.

He ponders the events of the last few hours, and the absence of two of his fellow death eaters from their meetings.

There is not yet a connection between the two, for Severus Snape had very little to do with Regulus Black.

They moved in different circles, Severus in fact moved in no circles, he was always solitary yet feared, and it was Regulus' absence that concerned him the most.

Regulus had never ignored the burning tattoo before; he had always been invited to the dinners before hand and had taken the first steps of forming close networks of wealthy and influential friends.

Lucius admired Regulus' tastes, his reputable family, and his well tailored cloaks.

Tucking the leather bound book into an inner pocket of his cloak Lucius apparates to Grimmauld place.

The house elf emits Lucius into the dark and narrow entry hall, his back bent into a most regal bow.

"I must speak with Regulus Black." He demands, thrusting his cloak and staff at the elf, striding his way into the drawing room.

The house is damp and smells of betrayal and cigarettes.

Lucius helps himself to a glass of firewhisky and seats himself in a lavish armchair.

"I am sorry Master Malfoy but Regulus is not at home."

The elf bows low again, his long nose almost touching the dark green carpet.

Lucius lifts an eyebrow but contains his surprise almost effortlessly.

"Well, alert him of my presence the moment he gets home. You may also get me something to eat while I wait and perhaps a cigar."

"Yes Sir but Master Regulus has not been home for many days and may not return for many more."

"Where has he gone?"

"Kreacher does not know Sir."

"Find him then you insolent elf."

"Yes Sir."

"And bring him to me; it is a matter of great importance that I speak with him."

"Yes Sir."

Kreacher apparates with a small pop, leaving Lucius' brow furrowed and a sense of unease.

**iii.**

They eat honey on crumpets and drink sugared tea.

The fire crackles merrily in Dumbledore's office, casting orange and red light on their faces, even though it is still summer, the castle is always chilly.

Regulus glances around the room, a stray drop of honey lingers near his bottom lip, his heart contented and warm.

Lily's legs are spread across Severus' lap as he sips at his too hot tea; she is talking loudly about dragon rehabilitation and other magical animal conservation.

He wouldn't tire of her face and her voice is he saw her everyday; she had once again blossomed into the image of youth and vitality.

Regulus can not believe how changed she is, from the broken woman he carried from her own doorstep to the bright young thing that sat before him, her head held close to Severus'.

Their task gave each of them something to live for, the castle made them comfortable and spread before them a blank canvas on which to write their own new chapters.

Albus reaches for the last crumpet; his eyes contain merriment behind his spectacles and as his gaze turns to meet Regulus' there is understanding and ease.

They are united in their cause, they have hope and a future.

Yet there is still the task at hand, and as they sit and laugh a death eater sits and thinks in Grimmauld place, pondering unanswerable absences and a small leather bound book.

Beyond the darkness and death there is a way to end the war, there is a small flickering light that signals peace and new life.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't think I need a disclaimer anymore, I'm sure you know that I'm not J

**Disclaimer: **I don't think I need a disclaimer anymore, I'm sure you know that I'm not J.K Rowling by now.

**Author's note: **I am back from the big around-the-world trip and am terrified about writing Admonition again. Mostly because I know that I've changed and I don't want my writing to reflect that change otherwise it will seem fragmented and this chapter 10 will be vastly different from the 9 that came before it. But alas, there is nothing I can do about it, so please review critically. I haven't written in a long time! And I think that as I've been away I've changed the plot a little bit. Ahem …

This chapter is dedicated to **Cuba** for her birthday, which I missed**.**

**Chapter 10: A Day Without Rain.**

**i.**

Sirius walks down the cobbled footpath, memories fade and reform within his fractured mind, while his hand grasps innocent leaves on nearby bushes as he passes them by.

He does not know why he walks down this childhood lane, somewhere in the alleys behind Grimmauld Place, the almost black clouds overhead symbolise a warning, but Sirius forgets to see the meaning behind them.

As his footsteps drag him closer to his former home there seems no risk in a small visit; his parents both deceased, his brother more unhinged than dangerous.

The twisted hallways and creaking stairs paint the backdrop of his wandering mind, and slowly he pieces together a map of the old house.

Sirius loves maps, the browning folds in the paper, the lines to destinations crossing and intertwining.

He finds himself more and more regularly sitting in the light of a dripping candle, tracing the lines between Berlin and Krakow, between Bundaberg and Osaka.

He finds himself wondering how long it would take to fly to these faraway places, little castles in the dawn sky.

Somewhere he could escape to.

Remus always tells him that you can't run away until you face your demons, you have to catch hold of their malignant leather wings and strangle them in the deep black waters of your fear, suffocate them under the pillows of your desire.

So he traces the memories to his old front door, the paint is curled and fading, the brass knocker seems less formidable in its unpolished state.

He raises a hand to knock before pushing the hinged door aside in a slight flurry of unprecedented anger, the corners of his mouth curling, his hand still clasped into an irate fist.

The troll's leg umbrella stand is exactly where he remembers it, his mother's curse hangs behind a tattered curtain, and he can almost hear her distate as he walks calmly past.

He tells himself that you can't fear houses, inanimate objects inhabited by people, but yet the small black hairs on his arm shiver and stand, his heart beats fretfully in muted protest.

He fancies a strong glass of firewhisky and tells himself it's not stealing, and even if it was, why would he care? Where did all this caring come from all of a sudden?

He leaves footprints in the dust on the stairs, his hands seem to burn the unpolished wood on the banisters, his breath is caught somewhere between his lungs and the opening of his mouth.

His feet turn the corner into the drawing room and Sirius find himself looking into blue eyes under a blonde fringe.

Instinctively his wand arm rises, his feet stop their movement and square protectively beneath him, his breath begins to race, his own eyes remain steady.

"Good evening Mr. Black," Lucius announces casually, he crosses his legs and takes a sip out of his own glass of firewhisky, his lips curling around the rim of the glass.

**ii.**

Lily studies him through her eyelashes, so that he appears before her with small vertical lines running across his sharp face.

She blinks sleepily and folds her feet closer to herself, she likes blinking in front of him, likes how he appears and disappears and for once in her life she knows he will be there when she opens them again.

Open. Close. Open.

The world is filtered between the darkness of the night and the hazy light of the candle flame, her hand reaches instinctively for him, her fingers drum little tunes on his forearm.

Open. Close. Open.

He smiles, his crooked delicious smile and she smiles back, they grin at each other like the children they use to be; trapped in memories they yearn to create more.

He is so close now that the little hairs from his fringe touch her forehead, her hand moves to his back, her fingers tracing nonsense words like 'love' and 'lust', she can hear his breath as it falls on her throat, on her collarbone, on her cheek.

His lips brush slowly across her own and she stops blinking.

Close.

**iii.**

Regulus sits on the edge of his bed in his pajamas, his feet not touching the floor but swinging in the space between.

He feels complete, as if that big gaping hole in him has been filled with the crumpets and the honey, with the task and with new friendships.

Everything seems new, like the little budding flowers in the springtime, it is a new beginning, a chance to be more.

He swings his legs up onto the bed and tucks them under the blanket, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes out of focus somewhere on the vaulted ceiling.

A loud pop snaps him out of his reminiscing, he kinks his neck in the processes of spinning towards the door.

"Kreacher!"

"Master," the elf bows low, his long nose touching the floor, "Mr. Malfoy is in the drawing room."

"The drawing room, Kreacher?"

"Yes Master, at Grimmaruld Place."


	11. Chapter 11

Author's note: It is such a difficult thing to have this huge fic in front of me, and I am just lucky for the continued support of my friend Cuba, the only one who has read the last chapter

**Author's note: **It is such a difficult thing to have this huge fic in front of me, and I am just lucky for the continued support of my friend Cuba, the only one who has read the last chapter! I'm glad at least she likes it!

This chapter is dedicated to **Ian McEwan**__who is a brilliant writer, and is a source of my inspiration.

**Chapter 11: Hold Me to the Night**

**i.**

Narcissa watches the wood in the fireplace burn; the oranges and reds flickering between yellows and pinks teasingly like a burlesque dancer, the coals forming shapes she can't find names for.

Her hands work automatically on thin pearl knitting needles, weaving and ducking between the baby blue wool, a pair of booties being born out of her labour.

Lucius would like her to knit with magic, or to give the work to the house elf but Narcissa finds the movement of her hands soothing and the end result a small achievement in her days of leisure.

Her son lies in his magically rocking cradle, she keeps one eye on him at all times, at the small delicate thumb placed hungrily in his mouth, on the soft curling hair and the innocently closed eyes.

He is her perfection.

He makes her marriage of repetition and rituals contain a love that it never did without his presence.

Her husband only loves her as a statement and as an idea; her son adores her with every fiber of his little existence.

She knows by the way he holds his hands out to her, the way he falls asleep on her heavy breast and the way he smiles as little rays of sun dance over his naked body.

She had been so furious at the knowledge of Lily Evan's miscarriage, as she learnt it not to be a mistake but a murder.

Lucius had laughed uproariously with his 'friends', their hands on each others shoulders, congratulating each other for blowing out a candle, a chance at a woman's happiness.

And a small fury was born inside the youngest Black sister, a tight uncomfortable sensation of revenge.

**ii.**

"You were born with a smile," Remus muses, taking a small drag of his cigarette, "but now the sides of your lips are turning into a frown."

Peter looks up uncomfortably from where his chin is rested on his knee, his fingers pull at the fraying edge of his cloak.

"And is it a crime to be sad now Remus? With this war waging like a storm, with uncertainties and death, is it improper for me to frown?"

His oldest friend raises one eyebrow, his hands moving from cigarette to coffee cup.

"I just don't like to see you sad Wormy, I hate seeing all this sadness, all this waste. I went to take Lily some flowers, she wasn't home. James is still sleeping and drinking away his sorrows at Padfoot's and did you hear? Alice and Frank lost their baby too."

Peter lets his shoulders form a casual shrug before emitting a barely audible whisper, "at least we are all still alive, right Moony?"

Remus smiles and shifts closer, embracing him in a gruff one-armed hug. Not knowing of the traitorous beats of his friend's heart.

"At least we are still alive," he agrees.

**iii.**

Open.

Severus' lips are still so close to Lily's mouth, she can feel the air from his lungs on her chin and it makes her shiver.

She had buried her memories of Sev after she left Hogwarts, placed in a muddy grave near the playground at Spinner's End, he had fallen away with her tears.

She had given her entire whole heart to James with no patches and no stains and she had believed it would stay in his care until they lay in the ground together.

She felt as if her lips were on fire, little flaming lips of a thousand candles, and she couldn't quite work out if that was a good thing.

Severus brushed the hairs from her cheek and lifted her chin carefully, his eyes finding her own, asking without words if everything was ok.

"I don't know," she trembled, her whole body ached for him and yet her mind trembled and turned shaking tears loose from her eyes, causing her heart to hammer against her ribs like a caged bird.

"I don't know how it's ever going to be ok, how I'm ever going to feel whole again."

Shaking in distress she twists and pivots on the bed, shaking her hands like a mad woman.

Severus catches them up between his own, holding them firm, and through his fingers Lily can feel the gold of the rings on her left hand and she gasps at the memory.

Nineteen years old twisted together on a picnic blanket, her hands in his soft black hair, he reads from a muggle children's book, his laughter embracing her like a cloud, he drops the book carelessly in the grass and turns into her embrace, burying his head in her stomach, kissing the top of skirt with what feels like a thousand lips.

"Lily?"

When she refocuses there is different black hair around her and she hiccoughs slightly.

"I'm sorry Sev but I need to see James."

He lets her hands fall into her lap but keeps his eyes steady.

"I know Lil, I know."


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: Getting back into this story is like getting back on a bike, you remember and gradually it gets easier

**Author's note: **Getting back into this story is like getting back on a bike, you remember and gradually it gets easier. And writing is like breathing, it's only natural for me to write this story – it's the story I've always wanted to write.

This chapter is dedicated to **My Computer**, even though it is slow and old, it still enables me to write.

**Chapter 12: Memories of Trees**

**i.**

Lily stands amongst their old possessions and pieces of broken furniture – she wonders how they became to be broken but cannot remember.

Everything is disjointed and covered in a fine layer of dust, it is as if the house rebelled against its lonely state whilst she was gone and she can't quite put her finger on what it is that went missing.

She walks around the empty spaces, tiptoeing over magazines left on the floor and a pair of James' stripped boxers, still where they fell on the cold bathroom tiles.

And it is the bed that upsets her the most, with its paisley pillows and folded down sheets and its own layer of dust – and she can hear Sirius' dirty joke in her head about the use of beds with dust on them – and it hurts like a deep regret of old memories.

She wants to touch it but turns to the door and walks back through her faded memoirs to the living room.

It's as if he is merely a part of her reminiscing because she didn't hear him come in, and he is just like she remembered, with his shirt untucked and his glasses askew and his hands in his pockets and an almost cheeky grin on his face, as he stands in front of her.

In their living room.

And she lets out a little whine, like the pathetic sound a kitten makes when it tastes warm milk, and immediately lifts her hand to her mouth.

"Hello," he says.

She notices that his feet are moving on the carpet but he's not actually going anywhere, and she can't remember what that non-movement is called and it makes her angry.

And so she says hello back because she doesn't know what to do except for stare at his moving feet and try to remember why they are saying hello to each other like estranged relatives instead of lovers and best friends and everything they use to be.

"Did you want to sit down?" He gestures sort of helplessly at their couch and raises his eyebrows, shrugging his too tall shoulders and running a hand through his hair.

"No! I will not be asked to sit down by you in my own house!"

And the pain of losing the baby and her husband, and the confusion of Severus and the possibility of winning the war and the love and pain and desire all pours forth from her mouth like a little steam engine of words.

And he stands there, his hands in his pockets and accepts it all and it is not until she stands there trembling, her body shaking with anger and her face red and wet that he steps over to her and wraps his arms around her so tightly that she can't resist.

She begins to scream into his shoulder but her words are muffled by the smell of his skin and the feel of his soft jumper on her tears and she weeps unashamedly until she realises that his body is trembling too.

They are little statues rocking back in forth in the middle of the deserted room.

She lifts her fire red hair from his shoulder and he wipes her tears with his calloused finger and she gulps back the anger and lets her eyes find his and is shocked by the pain that is in them.

All this time she had assumed that he didn't care, that she was the only one hurting and screaming and clawing at her insides, and all this time she wasn't alone.

"I want to make it all better, will you let me try?" 

His words fall onto her upturned face like little drops of morning dew and it is the sweetness she breathes in and not all the mistakes, and so she nods her head a little bit before pulling him into her.

**ii.**

A soft drilling rain begins to fall from the dusky sky, creating puddles like mirrors and drops like tears, and Peter huddles further into his moleskin coat as he scurries through the alleyways.

And he stops, suddenly aware that the rain is not the only thing running down his face and down his chin, his feet are inches deep in the curb water but all he can feel is the reality of his tears, his eyes an open well of emotion.

Everything is already lost and still he weeps.

For the past and for a non-existent future, for the ignorant kindness of his friends and for the false acceptance of his enemies.

For his mistakes and misfortunes, and he understands it's all on his hands.

Blood on his hands staining the soft fleshy skin under his nails, his friend's blood seeping straight from his deftly pumping heart and into the rainy afternoon.

He drops into the muddy puddle and scrapes his murderer's hands on the pavement, trying to leave his fears behind.

**iii.**

He has been able to piece the puzzle together now, with all its unnecessary twists and turns to confuse and blind, it is all suddenly clear.

Taking a sip of lemon tea, Albus balances the teacup precariously on the edge of his table to remind himself that everything hangs on the tip of disaster.

The locket would be easy enough to possess once the secret of the potion was revealed and they could safely retrieve that piece of Tom's soul.

Albus understood almost immediately that the horcruxes would only be items of extreme value to Tom, and had compiled a list of likely suspects.

Slytherin's ring, Hufflepuff's cup, Gryffindor's gravestone, Ravenclaw's mirror and of course the locket.

But there must be more – surely Tom would have chosen to split his soul seven ways, the strongest magical number, to ensure his everlasting though decaying life.

He had an inkling that it had something to do with an idea he had tried to lay to rest many times over the countless years, and even sitting in his office with the lemon tea reminding him of the risks he disapparated like an old fool.

The entrance to Numengard prison was clouded by a heavy rain and Albus thought this fitted the mood perfectly.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: **Admonition has reached over 3000 hits and is not far off 100 reviews and I couldn't be prouder. This story started as an original and frightening piece in order to demonstrate my own beliefs and is now something very close to my heart. Thank you all for reading and reviewing – I appreciate it more than words can say. I hope you all enjoy this (not unlucky) next chapter.

This chapter is dedicated to **the-original-hufflepuff** for always being a great friend and for taking the time to read this – I give you Remus.

**Chapter 13: As Far as Forever**

**i.**

Time passed in strange ways between the stone walls of the prison he had built himself, squeezed between his own ideals and the memories he clung onto when there was no light to see.

For it was all of one time, not days, months and years but a whole, complete and unified it stretched endlessly before and behind him and only when the light stole through the gap between the door and the floorboards or the cracks between the bricks was Gellert aware of a life outside of this.

He would repeat whole literary texts and political speeches to make sense of the void, first in German and then in English, pushing each word between his chaffed lips like a prayer.

Sent not to heaven, but into the cold unrelenting bricks, into the hours he knew naught of.

And when the door opened and the world stole in, he flung up his arms and cried out to that strange man of shadows and light, as if he was seeing someone for the first time for unbearably tall and wonderful he was.

He clasped onto the hand that was placed on his withered bone-like shoulder, and with his flesh touching another, the years of memories fell into his mind like little pebbles on a beach and as he staggered away, clutching the sides of his head, he smiled.

His teeth rotten and decayed, he smiled.

"It is good for you to visit me, Albus, has it been a long time?"

His voice was surprisingly smooth and velvety, like chocolate with too much milk, and it surprised Albus so much that he let out a little irretrievable sigh.

"It has been too long, my old friend."

For time works in strange ways.

Both in the prisons made of stone, and the prisons of the human heart.

**ii.**

Remus lies on crumpled sheets, unaware of the dark and poisoned blood that stains the linen beneath him.

His breathing is slow and rhythmic; his lungs, human once more, inflate and dilate as little pillows of breath float into the stale bedroom air.

The room is full of diagrams and charts, discarded apples and moldy cups of coffee, a life balanced between the organised and the insane.

He dreams of sunny days and endless blue skies, of a thousand hands supporting the weight of his existence, linked together they lift him up and strong and united they hold and do not waver.

Blearily he opens an amber eye, warily checking the time on the bedside lamp before fluttering it closed again.

He stretches and yawns between the sheets, forgetting for a moment that he'd rather stay asleep.

While sleeping there were no expectations, no duties to fulfill and no people to see, no need for fake smiles and exuberant pretences of friendship.

And so he turns the beside clock back a few hours and returns to oblivion.

**iii.**

Regulus arrives at his home through the charred green smoke of the drawing room fire place, steeping elegantly out he moves straight for the man seated in his favourite chair, the chair that belonged to his father.

"Ah Lucius, and to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

But the penetrating blue eyes do not turn his way but remain fixed on a point in the doorway, Regulus turns also, unable to take in the shadowy figure standing there.

For that particular figure had been lost to a time of memories, trapped somewhere between summer quidditch matches and endless malevolent glares.

The brothers share a swift glance, but Sirius is hesitant to break the contact he has made with Lucius, for his wand is pointed at the others chest.

Lucius lets out a short contract of laughter, lifting a crystal glass to his lips.

"This situation seems quite absurd to me, would you care to explain Regulus?"

Regulus lifts a careful eyebrow, his face a manicured mask of false emotions, and in the end he utters a little sigh and lifts one shoulder in a shrug – as if these reunions happen all the time.

"Lower your wand Sirius."

His voice is powerful and warm, and his hand reaches discreetly into his cloak pocket, his pale fingers caressing the familiar handle of his own wand.

Regulus' moves like the murderer he was trained to be, his wand controlled by thought rather than the muscles in his hand, as almost casually he commands the spell.

"_Obliviate."_

Lucius' hand is still curled around his firewhisky, his gaze does not quite reach Sirius' but floats somewhere in between, his mind a blank canvas, ready to be rewritten.

"Sirius, lower your fucking wand and leave."

His brother narrows his eyes before letting his hand fall to his side.

"I don't know what game you're playing at little brother, but you're going to get yourself killed."

Sirius makes his way to the fireplace, letting a handful of floo powder fall from his outstretched hand, but turns before stepping into it, the glimmer of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I owe you one," his laughter penetrates the silence of the room long after his figure vanishes within the curling flames.

It takes only a few minutes for Regulus to modify Lucius' memory, his mind searching the death eaters for snippets of his brother and carefully erased them.

It was a necessary violation to enter one's mind, to trace the eerie pathways of emotion and memory.

Taking a glass of firewhisky for himself he lifted the spell.

"Ah Lucius, and to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note: **I'm trying to be a good updater today – and with so many plot lines in this story I felt like I needed to get back to some characters I had unintentionally left behind. Please review, and I'll bake you a cake!

This chapter is dedicated to **Rye-pie** because I want her to be happy.

**Chapter 14: How Bright You Shine**

**i.**

The world is fractured like broken glass lost between the fibers of a carpet, all the lights are turned off now, and there is no notion of space or time, only the sound of blank beating hearts and bare feet unsure of what direction to turn.

Lily clings to the back of James' shirt as he wanders into their bedroom, her face is moist from tears and her chest heaves with uncertainty and desire.

He turns to her and holds her like a broken doll, a bird without wings, and she murmurs and blinks into his tense shoulder.

She speaks silent questions into the night, pleading to be let go, for now that she is here, in the emptiness of this room, she realises that her heart too, is empty.

All the capacity for love that was once there has faded into an abyss that she can't find, and she is aware of how fragile everything feels, as if she is tottering on the edge of a precipice and no one can hold her back.

Perhaps _he _can save her, but not James.

And all along he never could save her from what she was fleeing, because to him she was always a pillar of strength and vitality and wonder – and now that she was in pieces he couldn't hold all of her together.

The loss of their child had opened a wound between them, red and gaping it stretched too far to be breached, and even the familiarity of smell and touch and taste couldn't help them to jump across to find each other.

Holding each other to the night – they were oceans apart.

**ii.**

Somewhere between the washing line and the kitchen sink, Petunia has lost herself.

Trapped within the confines of the too white walls and the smell of disinfectant, she slides to the tiled floor.

Her eyes staring but not seeing, her body falling and not standing, her hands closing but not opening.

It has been a long time coming, this breakdown.

She remembers a dark haired boy, his nose too long, his smile too crooked; she remembers the way he carried Lily's toys for her, tentatively held her hand when he thought no one was watching, stared at her as if she was the only person in the world.

She remembers the next dark haired boy, with his arm muscles and his goofy grin; she remembers the way he talked to her parents at dinner, brushed a stray hair from her face, walked to her across the snow that littered the lawn on Christmas.

Most of all she remembers a love between them that she could never have.

For all Petunia has is a crying child and a fat husband, an organised house and a fake smile.

She lifts herself from the barren tiles and returns to the laundry.

Picking up the wiry steel brush she begins to scrub.

For in her cold, desolate life there is no love, only order.

**iii.**

The rain plummets from the sky, raining down in quite suicide across the wide expanse of the Hogwarts grounds.

Severus drinks his steaming cup of coffee and watches the way the moon light is delicately filtered through clouds and rain, the steam from his drink mists the window over and he feels like a child as he writes her name in the fog.

It is only now, when he is alone, that he allows the jealousy to rise within him like a bitter bile.

For she is with Potter, and he watches the rain.

Its angry descent from the clouds does little to calm the internal battle that rages within him.

He wonders if there was anything he could have done that would have made her stay, but he knows that by letting her go, he has won.

He wonders what hold Potter has over her, what it is that would make her go back to him after the way he walked away.

Severus turns away from the window, tired of the rain, so tired of the injustice of it all.

He moves back to the cauldron that dominates the room, stirring it first clockwise then twice anti-clockwise, watching as the purple changes into a thick dark red.

It would be ready within the week – the potion that would counter the effects of the one Tom Riddle had filled a basin with and made a helpless house elf drink.

Turning back towards the rain, Severus allows himself a small inarticulate smile.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's note: **It has been over 2 years since I last updated this story, or have written fanfiction at all. I have always wanted to finish this story, I suppose just to prove something to myself, and also because I don't like leaving thing half-done! I'm trying not to alter my writing style, but of course things have changed over the years so please be patient while I do my best to get back into the swing of things.

**Chapter 15: Long White Clouds**

**i.**

Lily leaves before the sun rises. From the safety of the doorway she watches his head rolling gently on the creases of the pillow before threading her way through the still dark house.

Tripping on shadows she cries over spilt milk.

As she walks through empty streets, the sun slowly filtering through low-lying clouds she begins to see things clearly.

Severus.

Severus when he was eleven, in his over-large frock coat, pulling idly at the browning grass in the playground at Spinner's End.

Severus when he was thirteen, tracing the outline of her lips with trembling but strong fingers.

Severus when he was fifteen, scowling in the icy corridors of Hogwarts, his sallow skin almost transparent and his hair falling into his weeping eyes.

And all this time it had always been him.

The time she had spent with James had been stolen time - burgled minutes and pilfered seconds. She realises it now in the blue grey light.

And as she turns on the cobbled stones fresh with dew she smiles, apparating back, back, back to him.

**ii.**

Regulus feels that he is quite good at dealing with powerful, arrogant men, but his hand still shakes as he places three ice cubes in his crystal glass, covering them with amber whiskey. His mind is full of grand exclamations and far-fetched schemes, but the truth is, he has never been a very good liar.

"Ah yes," he exclaims as he turns back to face Lucius, a small smile playing on his quivering lips, "I deeply regret having missed the last two meetings Lucius, I have been holidaying in France."

"For my health," he adds as an afterthought.

"For your health, Black?" Lucius pronounces the word 'health' as if it is the very epitome of a lie. His fingernails tap lightly on his own glass of whisky.

Regulus laughs, a terribly hollow laugh, "Don't you know the witches in France do wonders for your health?"

Lucius laughs too, shaking his head a little as he rises to his feet.

Regulus knows something is wrong before Lucius has time to draw his wand; the cruciatus curse hits the bottle of whisky behind Regulus seconds after he dives behind the sofa.

"I don't think the Dark Lord is interested in your French whores, Regulus, and neither am I. I think a little visit to the Dark Lord will rid your tongue of lies."

Regulus draws small quiet breaths, and through the gap between the floor and the sofa he can see Lucius' leather shoes pacing, leaving little indents on the plush emerald carpet.

Tracing this movement with his wand, Regulus carefully takes aim.

"Stupefy!"

As the spell hits Lucius' wandering feet, Regulus dives towards the drawing room fire and as the flames turn an icy green he vanishes into their depths.

**iii. **

As the light rises above the mountains surrounding the Hogwarts grounds, Severus awakes from a fitful slumber. His dreams have stopped playing behind his eyelids, and he faces the cold reality of his stone room.

Wearily he gets to his feet, wrapping a thick black cloak around his shoulders and inspects the potion. The dawn light is doing it some good, the consistency has thickened and swelled. It is not long now.

An inhibited yawn escapes his pale lips as he makes his morning coffee, thick and black, the granules melt under the boiling water. He blows the top of the coffee in short sharp bursts so that it may cool down before it can be enjoyed.

Moving towards the window he scratches his chin, placing 'shaving' on his mental to-do-list. His nose pressed against the cold glass panes of the window he gazes absent-mindedly into the foggy grounds.

And there she is, her firey hair partially covered in a woolen hat, wandering slowly towards the castle from Hogsmede. He can see her tilting her head to count the castle windows, shielding her eyes from the morning sun.

His heart skips a beat as he imagines it is his window she is searching for and his presence she is craving.

Abandoning his too-hot coffee on his bedside table he races into the labyrinth of corridors, unable to curtail his eagerness to be in her presence.

Rounding the corner that would lead him to the great hall, he jogs head first into someone moving very fast.

Backing away with a scowl his eyes land Regulus, a terrified look bepaints the younger boy's normally controlled features.

"What has happened?" Severus speaks sharply.

"It's Lucius, he suspects me. I need to speak to Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore isn't here."


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: **I'm so grateful for the happy responses readers have had to my return! I unfortunately don't have much time to update because of my insanely hectic life but rest assured that I will update as often as is humanely possible.

**Chapter Sixteen: A Beginning**

**i.**

He hasn't slept for weeks. His tongue parched; his eyelids heavy.

Remus knows that this is all just a part of the short straw that fate drew for him, but every now and then, the anger, the resentment, and the injustice of the whole damn thing catches up with him.

He sits in the crumbling courtyard of his rented apartment in downtown muggle London. The red brown bricks that surround him are chipped and broken, tumbling from great heights to form small piles of dust at his feet.

The days and months pass idly around him as he sips from fractured china, inhales half-lit cigars.

His adventures with the Order have become infrequent, the secret of his wolfish ways has passed through supposedly sealed lips. It's reckless and dangerous now to be seen to be acting on their behalf – the rest of his species would never side with big-hearted fun-loving Dumbledore.

His lips tremble back in a snarl; his vocal chords admit an innate growl.

He sits in his courtyard.

All day. All night. All day.

Entertaining old friends when the chance arises: Firewhisky with Sirius, brave conversations with James, and resigned sighs with Peter.

But the times spent alone have left shadows beneath his golden eyes; have pulled the corners of his lips into a frown.

This is it. Today is the day. If it's not today than tomorrow will mean nothing.

Tired of watching the paint peeling on bricks Remus forces himself from his whitewashed chair, wand in hand he heads back to where it all began.

Back to the beginning.

**ii.**

Albus recognises every line on Gellert's face. Even the ones that have appeared in the intereval of time since he has last seen him. The deep crevice beneath his left eye, the wrinkle extended out from the right side of his mouth, the soft creases on his neck.

His face is a map, leading from forehead to cheek, crossing the space between the nose and the upper lip, meandering over the chin.

The only thing different is his eyes.

The eyes once so bright and fanciful, so deep that you lost whole minutes staring into their bottomless depths, were now empty.

Cold and Empty.

And Albus wishes there was a spell, a type of magic, that could restore them to their former shade.

He hasn't quite let go of those childish dreams, his belief in a utopia, and he knows even now as he plots to overthrow Tom Riddle that it's all for this one unobtainable fantasy.

He holds Gellert's withered hand; the bones in it seem more skeletal than human as they poke from beneath the bruised and stretched skin. As a single tear rolls from behind his half-moon glasses he can't help the pleading question that escapes his lips.

"Where is the stone Gellert, where is the stone?"

**iii.**

The lights in Sirius' flat are too bright.

The floor is covered in half eaten pizza, cigarette butts, and pages ripped from muggle magazines showing girls in hot pink bikinis. Photos from their school days are framed and hung in place of glory around the walls of the lounge room.

Peter can see himself in all of them, slightly smaller and fatter than the others, always pushed to the side or to the back, his head poking from behind James' elbow.

He is laughing in all of them, his head thrown back in an almost cringe-worthy display of ridiculous affection.

He clenches his fists as the sight of them, and has to turn his face away.

There is no doubt he has changed since then, he is no longer at the bottom of some childish popularity game.

He is one of the Dark Lord's most trusted servants.

He alone is responsible for the murder of what could have been the Dark Lord's most powerful enemy.

And the thought makes him smile. He smiles at the thought of James and Lily's dead son – it has earned him respect.

Respect. A word not associated with 'Wormy', the dumb clumsy boy that always tagged along after the Great Potter and Black.

He smiles as he takes the shot of firewhisky Sirius offers him.

He smiles.

Sirius tilts his head from side to side – the firewhisky moves in his mouth from side to side. He tilts his head forward – the firewhisky tilts forward also. He throws his head back - the firewhisky follows suit.

Peter watches this dance of alcohol and man for a few more seconds, painting his face with a bemused and childish grin.

Finally Sirius lets out a loud belch before sweeping his ever growing fringe to the side of his face and throwing a heavy arm across the smaller boy's shoulders.

"It's just so, you know, weird" Sirius says, his body swaying slightly.

"So Lucius seemed to be angry at Regulus?" Peter enquires.

"Yeah I mean I suppose it shouldn't be weird that there was a death eater waiting for my disgusting death eater brother at my disgusting death eater home but something just didn't feel right Pete."

He takes another dramatic swig of firewhisky before adding, "like where was Regulus anyway? Isn't Lucius supposed to know where all his little friends are all the time?"

Peter shrugs, removing his friend's arm from his back and gets to his feet.

"Sure is weird Paddy," he lets out a yawn, "gottsta get to bed anyway, I'll pop round tomorrow."

And as he dissaparates he thinks not of his small Bedfordshire cottage but the Lestrange's mansion.

All he craves is respect.


End file.
